Baggage Claim
by festeringlilies
Summary: Modern!AU Captain Swan. Killian is fairly certain he picked up the wrong luggage at the airport because the lacy black bra in his suitcase definitely isn't his.


Author's Note: Whew, this is the longest piece of writing I've completed to date; I'm surprisingly proud of myself for pushing through the parts I didn't want to write, but I guess that's all part of the storytelling process!

Enjoy!

* * *

**Baggage Claim**

Bloody _hell_.

If it wasn't enough that his flight was delayed two hours thanks to heavy rain in New York, he now has said heavy rain to blame for the water soaking through his shirt and three inches of his trousers _and_ a moved up meeting with a prospective high profile client.

_My daughter's birthday, my ass_, he thinks bitterly, shoving his phone into his damp pocket while juggling the hotel room card with his umbrella and suitcase in his other hand. _More like trying to avoid traffic on a Friday._ Good thing he wasn't a complete idiot when he booked his flight out of Maine: with a little luck, he can dry off and change and still make it to the meeting with enough time to spare to make it look like he didn't nearly get the back of his jacket caught in the airport revolving door in his haste to get a cab.

Room 322. He slides the card in the slot, waits for the green light, and pushes the door open. Thank god he decided to stay in the city an extra day or he wouldn't have brought a change of clothes. The thought of taking off the stupidly drenched socks that are plastered to his feet nearly makes his frozen toes curl, and he rolls his suitcase to the corner of the room before pulling it open, praying that his mad dash from the cab to the hotel door wasn't enough for the pouring rain to leak through and completely ruin his day.

Lace. A scalloped ridge of black lace. The first thing he sees is a scrap of fabric barely passing as a bra that would have many a lesser man flushing red in an instant, but the only thing he can do at the moment is faintly think, _I don't wear bras._ After a few seconds of blank staring, though, he realizes he's being ridiculous and gingerly moves the offending article of clothing aside, but his suspicion that someone else's belongings might have gotten into his bag during a security check is immediately quashed. Besides a few more sets of fascinating lingerie (in different colors, too – someone certainly came prepared), he finds nothing in the suitcase that even remotely interests him, much less a change of male clothing that could be deemed appropriate for a business meeting (if he was a woman, however, that would be a different story, because it seems as though the woman to whom these clothes belong is determined to hide her salacious undergarments under the most austere sense of style possible).

His heart sinking, he lifts the cover of the suitcase to take a look at the outside – it's his, all right, or at least it looks just like the battered old black suitcase he's always used for traveling light. It even has a thin red ribbon tied to the handle, but the accompanying dark leather tag, he realizes with a pang, is decidedly not his. Slowly, he lifts the flap to read the label.

_Emma Swan._ The tag lists an address in Boston, but at the moment the only thing he's concerned about is the phone number squeezed into the corner almost as an afterthought. He reaches up to scramble for his jacket he dropped on the bed, searching for the phone in his pocket. Okay, maybe if he busts his ass tracking down this woman, getting his bag back, and changing out of his disgustingly sopping clothes, he can be a few minutes late and blame it on the flight, as unprofessional as that sounds. He can almost hear the dangerously quiet reproof in Gold's voice now: _Jones, we sent you to New York to make sure Cora Mills cuts us a deal, not to traipse around in the rain and show up late like a sodden kitten on her doorstep._

Much to his distress, the phone doesn't even ring once before going straight to voicemail. _This is Emma Swan._ The voice is delightfully feminine, and even through his growing panic, he's amused that she sounds as stern as she dresses. _I can't answer my phone right now, so please leave a message and I'll get back to you as soon as I can._

He gives her his name and number, making sure to note how important it is that she call him back ASAP, before hanging up with a ball of dread curdling in his stomach. There's no telling when she'll return his call – for a second, he's terrified that her phone is off because she's caught a connecting flight, that she might be halfway across the country by now, but then he remembers that her luggage wouldn't have been on the carousel in that case and that he needs to get a hold of himself. There's no reason to panic. He has what he absolutely needs (no thanks to the packed flight forcing everyone in the latter half of the boarding line to check their carry-ons), and who says she won't call him back soon anyway? Maybe she just forgot to turn her phone back on after the flight.

After three full minutes of staring at his phone willing it to ring, though, he finally gives up and heads to the bathroom. He's never so much as held a hairdryer before, but he figures now's a good a time as any to learn how to use one without setting his clothes aflame.

* * *

Emma didn't think her day could get much worse. That was before her phone died and she opened her suitcase for her charger only to find out that the bag wasn't even hers.

Narrowly avoiding the wall of water a passing car sends her way, she darts under the awning to her hotel's front door, Apple store bag in hand. She still feels a little guilty for not being able to call Ruby to postpone their meet-up (the flight being delayed wasn't her fault, but her stupid decision to leave her parents' house with her phone at 15% battery and charger in the bag the airline made her check definitely was), but her guilt is nothing compared to the wave of irritation she felt when she expected to find Ruby's birthday present at the top of her suitcase and found a neatly folded button-up shirt instead.

Goddamn that _Killian Jones_. His name was written in looped cursive on the tag, along with his contact information, but of course she couldn't even call him with her phone out of commission (she doesn't feel quite up to paying a kidney to make a long distance call with the hotel line today, thanks). _Who even writes in cursive anymore, anyway?_ she thinks resentfully as she slams the elevator button with a force that startles an old woman walking nearby. As far as she's concerned, _he's_ the reason she is not only late but also soaking wet from her trek three blocks down the street and $30 poorer thanks to the overpriced accessories at the Apple store, because she can't even borrow Ruby's charger, because she doesn't even know where to meet her for lunch. She pointedly ignores the fact that she had grabbed the first bag that looked like hers and practically sprinted out of the airport to make her hotel check-in time – really, it was the same kind of bag and looked like it'd had the shit beaten out of it _and_ had a red ribbon tied to the handle, so she had no reason to believe it wasn't hers until she got a nice surprise thirty minutes later.

When she gets into her room, she tears open the charger box with unnecessary force and plugs her phone into the wall right away, plopping down on the floor next to the suitcase that isn't hers while she waits for it to start up. Luckily she doesn't have the appointment with her client until Monday, or she'd be stuck wearing this completely unprofessional by-then-three-day-unwashed dress for the meeting when she'd really only dressed up for lunch today (she doubts Ruby's packed her anything even vaguely resembling business attire for her birthday weekend – she'd gone straight from a meeting in Portland to New York without having packed for the time in between, not having known that Ruby was planning a New York trip to celebrate this specific weekend until she'd already left home, but Ruby's used to raiding her closet anyway).

Her phone lights up, and when she picks it up she sees a notification for a voicemail message already in her inbox.

_Hi, Emma Swan?_ The voice is unfamiliar but smooth and pleasant, and she immediately guesses who its owner is, turning to the open suitcase with relief. _This is Killian Jones. I believe you have my suitcase, as I currently have yours and am assuming they look remarkably similar. I'm still in the city, and I'd be happy to meet to swap if you're available, preferably as soon as possible since I do need some of the items I've packed within the half-hour. Please call me back._ He leaves his number and thanks her, but she's distracted because the clock on her bedside table is informing her that it's been an hour since the timestamp on the voicemail, and she can't help it – she feels just a little guilty, even though it's definitely still his fault. He seems patient and polite, and she's never been one to swoon over accents but hell if his doesn't do something funny to her stomach.

With an uncomfortable feeling pooling in her gut, she presses the button to call him back. It rings once before going to voicemail. Did he see an unknown number calling and decide to ignore it? Jesus Christ, does he want his stuff back or not? The irritation starts creeping back in an instant, and she's somehow not surprised that her unexpected fondness for this stranger was short-lived.

"Hi Killian," she says, not bothering to hide the exasperation in her voice. "This is Emma, the person who has your bag. I'm still in the city, too. Call me back so we can arrange to meet, thanks."

She hangs up and rises to get her wet clothes off before she catches a cold from the hotel air conditioning, because the last thing she needs is to get sick when she'll probably be out all weekend. Before she gets very far, though, the fresh scent of salt and spice and something reminding her of bright ocean air teases her nose. She blinks, confused, before leaning over the open suitcase and – yep, it's him all right; the scent of this Killian Jones is all over his belongings, and she pauses just a few seconds longer because it actually smells really good in a way that makes her all warm, and _god_ what the hell is she doing, sniffing some random person's stuff like some kind of stalker? Ruby would have a fit if she found out.

_Shit_, Ruby! Emma dives for her phone, but thankfully it appears that Ruby's had some kind of delay of her own: _Sorry, can we change lunch to 2:30? I'm starving but Victor's being an ass._ Emma smiles and taps back a quick response in the affirmative, asking for a location, before she turns back to the suitcase and hauls her dress over her head.

What are the chances he'll call her back before she has to leave? Knowing this guy (which she doesn't, her conscience reminds her guiltily), they're not very high, so she'll either have to meet Ruby completely drenched or use the hotel-provided hairdryer as a makeshift clothes dryer.

Well, she's been in worse spots before.

* * *

Of fucking _course_ she'd return his call right in the middle of the meeting.

He had neglected to turn off his phone with the (ever diminishing) hope that she would contact him in time, but in the end he'd been more concerned about how the wrinkles were drying into his shirt than about the sound settings on his phone. Thankfully Ms. Mills didn't seem to care about anything besides whether he could deliver, which he assured her that he and the rest of Gold & French could, and they spent the remainder of the meeting discussing case details over his growing impatience to check his new voicemail before finally parting ways.

He ducks out of the office building and into the weakening rain, fumbling with his umbrella while holding his phone between his shoulder and ear, and he can't explain why her message makes him grin. She sounds annoyed with him, which he supposes is partially understandable, although if she thinks he'll walk away with all the blame she has another thing coming.

"Hello?" She answers right away, as if she's been hovering to pick up the moment he calls her back.

"Hello, Emma? This is Killian."

"Oh." She pauses, and he can hear the distinct murmur of people and clinking silverware in the background before she speaks again. "Thanks for calling me back. Um, I'm actually out at lunch right now, but I could probably meet you in… fifteen minutes?" He checks his watch, and his amusement at this Emma Swan grows.

"You're out at lunch at 3:30?"

"It's a late lunch." He can practically hear her implicit _I don't have to explain myself to you_ – he barely knows her but the voice comes out perfectly in his head.

"I'm free for the rest of the day, love, so any time works for me. Where would you like to meet?"

"I'm staying at the Four Seasons on 57th, between Madison and Park. I can go halfway to wherever you are, if that works."

_Luxury hotel, huh?_ He wants to ask, but again it isn't any of his business. "As it happens, I'm at 60th and Park right now. I can meet you at the Four Seasons in fifteen, and then I can pick up your suitcase from my hotel and meet you halfway?"

"What? No that's okay, I don't want to make you run back and forth. I can come with you to your hotel to pick up my bag."

"I don't mind, love, that's quite all righ—"

"It's fine, really." Her firm voice leaves pretty much no room for argument, and while he'd normally try to be more of a gentleman, he has a feeling she's used to shutting people down with this tone.

"If you insist."

"Great." There's another pause during which he isn't sure if he's missed his cue to hang up. "Okay, I'll see you soon."

The line goes dead, and Killian smiles to himself. When his firm sent him on this business trip, he hadn't been expecting company of the pretty young female variety (if her voice and undergarments are any indication, that is – he shudders to think of the client he'd just met wearing anything remotely resembling lingerie); his extra day in the city has nothing to do with pleasure and everything to do with the free hotel stay they'd offered him for the trip. In another life (one that didn't include Milah and the accident and _god_ has it been three years already?) he'd have been delighted to take full advantage of New York's late night scene and his natural ability to charm the pants off of the ladies, but as it happens he hasn't really been in the mood for another one-night stand for quite some time.

Something about _this_ woman and her no-nonsense attitude, though, suggests he'd be in over his head if he even tried to charm her slate gray business skirt off, and the thought has him picking up his pace towards the Four Seasons at 57th with a small grin and more worry about his hairdryer-fixed appearance than he'd had for the business meeting she'd almost unwittingly ruined.

(It takes him half a block to realize she'd probably offered to pick up her suitcase herself because she doesn't want him to disappear once he gets his bag, and the thought that she's so wary of him makes him even more amused.)

* * *

"You don't have to be here, you know."

"I would be a terrible best friend if I wasn't."

"The guy isn't a serial killer or an ex-boyfriend, Ruby."

"I'm concerned you find the two even mildly comparable. Unless I really have been looking in the wrong demographic for you after all." Ruby's quirking an eyebrow with a wry red grin when Emma turns to her, and Emma rolls her eyes and fights the inevitable smile.

After leaning in to hear every second of her conversation with Killian, Ruby, who had popped into Emma's room (right down the hall from the one she was temporarily sharing with Victor) before their lunch date only to inspect the contents of Killian's suitcase in a way that made Emma's brief indiscretion seem like child's play, had decided to invite herself to their meeting in the hotel lobby, thoroughly determined to confirm that he was – to put it in her words – _at least mildly attractive_. (For some reason, she had suddenly become an overnight expert on reading too much into men's suit sizes and English accents.) Never mind the fact that they're splurging on an out-of-state trip because turning thirty is kind of a big deal – apparently any outing in which Ruby doesn't make at least one matchmaking attempt is a failure, because Emma's barren love life is obviously more important than spending time together to celebrate.

"Don't you have a date with Victor or something? I thought he was going back to Boston tomorrow to leave us to our weekend."

"He'll be fine for like ten more minutes without me there to babysit him, and, o-_ho_, I think this is your mystery man."

Emma follows Ruby's line of sight to the doorway, her heart already sinking at her gleeful tone because that can only mean one thing, and crap, okay – the guy walking through the revolving door, his gaze locking on the suitcase sitting next to her and then darting up to meet hers, is nothing short of absurdly handsome. Even though he has that harried look of someone only too glad to escape the rain, it's probably impossible for him to look as shitty as everyone else today, what with those impossibly blue eyes and dark stubble and storm-mussed hair. His hair would probably look good if it were even messier – fuck, she catches herself before she even starts to go down that road, because that's definitely not appropriate and he's nearing her with a smile and she can almost feel Ruby's delight burning through the side of her face.

"Emma?"

"Hi, Killian? It's nice to meet you." She shakes his outstretched hand. "Er, this is my friend Ruby." _And there's absolutely no need for you to know why she's here too_, she thinks as they get acquainted.

"Thank you for taking care of my bag for me," he says finally. He's looking at the worn and weathered suitcase at her feet, and she hands him the handle with a grimace, caught between going on the defensive and blushing with faint mortification.

"It was like that when I picked it up. That's what mine looks like too."

"I know, love," he says, giving her a reassuring smile, and she realizes she's being ridiculous for feeling embarrassed. "It's rather funny how similar our suitcases look. I imagine that's why you picked up mine by mistake."

"You picked up mine too, buddy, so don't try to make it my fault," she retorts with indignation, before she notes that he's still smiling and _god_, it was a joke. Her lips twitch; she's not usually this terrible at generally interacting with some level of competence, but she'll chalk it up to the long day and the weather before she'll listen to what Ruby would have to say about it. "Okay, sorry, you're kidding. Got it. Shall we?"

He nods like he's suppressing the urge to chuckle before gesturing to the door. "I'm staying at the Marriott on Lexington, so we can take the subway to escape the rain if that's all right with you." She suspects there's another jab in there somewhere, but then Ruby speaks up and the thought flies right out of her mind.

"I think I have to go meet Victor now, so I'll catch you later, Emma?" Ruby's wearing her signature smirk that probably looks totally innocent to everyone else, but Emma knows it only means trouble, and given the situation it's not too hard to figure out exactly what kind of trouble it's meant to spell for her today.

"You said in ten minutes, didn't you?"

"It's been ten minutes," Ruby says, the traitor, and she has the nerve to wink before waving at Killian and turning on her heel back to the elevator, leaving Emma flabbergasted and wondering why she's even here in New York for the weekend. Killian, who seems to have been watching the exchange with an entertained expression on his stupidly attractive face, catches her attention as he motions towards the door again.

"After you, milady."

Emma sighs. This really is turning out to be an eventful day, and she's only just had lunch. As she leads Killian out the revolving door and into the light drizzle outside, the phone in her hand buzzes, lighting up with a text from Ruby.

_I never said I was coming with you. And besides, the guy's hot; it's not like I'm throwing you to the wolves._

* * *

If he'd known Emma Swan would turn out to be anything like the gorgeous blonde waiting for him in the Four Seasons lobby, he probably would have checked his reflection in the shop window next door before ducking inside.

As luck would have it, he meets this woman after having spent the day sitting in an airplane on a delayed flight, being rained on by a stupid summer storm, drying off with the hairdryer in the hotel bathroom, and splashing around the city to make his various appointments. All in all, not a great time to have his socks knocked off by a woman only to realize he probably looks like crap.

He was right to have been nervous when he'd hung up with her.

On the way to the subway station, he tries his hardest not to stare at her too much, but it's really bloody difficult and not just because she seems determined not to talk to him, leaving him nothing with which to distract himself. He can't tell whether her bright eyes are hazel or green, and the urge to keep checking is almost as distracting as how her hair falls in bright waves down past her bare shoulders. She's wearing a short dress made of some sheer material that catches the wind and draws his attention to how long her legs are, a fact made only more prominent by the height of her heels, and he's only too glad they're walking side by side with their umbrellas bumping because otherwise she'd definitely catch him staring at her ass, and he really doesn't want her to think he's some kind of creep.

It's honestly such a 180 from what he'd been expecting – maybe another lawyer in one of those suits she seems to enjoy so much, her hair pulled up into a bun and a permanent frown on her face – that when they take a seat on the 6 train, he finally speaks up after five minutes of dead silence.

"I hope you won't take this the wrong way, love, but this is quite the pleasant surprise given the impression I got of your appearance from the clothes in your suitcase."

She looks up at him, startled, then slowly narrows her eyes. "How much of my stuff did you go through?"

"Most of it, I'm afraid, as I'm sure you did to mine." He can tell she's about to protest before she realizes that he's right, so she settles for fixing him with a wary stare instead.

"And what was the impression you got of me?"

"An old businesswoman, perhaps? No, probably not old, given the lingerie."

She turns an endearing shade of pink, but he's only able to enjoy it for a brief moment before her gaze turns piercing and his stomach flips over in his body. "That was for my friend, Ruby. It's her birthday."

"Ah, wish her a happy birthday for me," he says, trying a smile, and the way the corners of her mouth curve as if she's trying not to return his grin is enough for the moment.

Ah yes, _Ruby_. There was definitely some kind of silent communication going on between Emma and her friend (who was admittedly quite pretty, but if he's honest with himself he's been vaguely charmed by the blonde who was standing beside her from the moment she first picked up the phone); he's well-versed enough in the subtleties of female body language to recognize the signs, not that the wink was at all subtle, and it's that along with the fact that she doesn't seem too reluctant to walk or sit very close to him that gives him a tiny spark of hope, to hell with his intended dry spell because his plans for a quiet night in New York obviously didn't take Emma Swan being quick-tongued and adorably awkward and really fucking gorgeous into account.

"So are you in the city for business?" Her voice cuts through this musings, and he recognizes the look in her eye as one of pointed resignation, as if she's finally decided to try to keep up a sense of civility with pleasant conversation.

"Indeed I am. I had a meeting with a prospective client."

"What do you do?"

"I'm a lawyer. I catch the bad guys." Here she gives him a full eye-roll, and he prides himself because he feels like this is something she often does to cover up her amusement. "And you? What do you do?"

"Bail bondsperson. I _actually_ catch the bad guys." He laughs, thrilled at the tiny smirk on her face.

"I suppose that explains the business attire. Is that why you're in the city as well?"

"Partially. I'm meeting a client on Monday, but I'm also here to celebrate Ruby's birthday."

"Hopefully not in a pantsuit?"

She narrows her eyes, her mouth open in a faint grin of mock outrage. "I could ask the same of you. Your clothes are awfully formal for a weekend in the city, even if you're here for business during the day. You're not very used to going out, are you?"

"I can show you just how used to going out I am if you have a drink with me tonight." He can't help it – she gave him such a good opening. Her eyes glint, and she presses her lips together in a thin pink smile, and he almost thinks he's actually gotten away with it before she shakes her head slowly.

"Like I said – it's Ruby's birthday weekend, and I already have plans."

"Pity," he says, feeling more than a little disappointed for what was supposed to be a casual invitation.

The subway stops at 51st, then, and as they alight from the station in silence, he's even more disappointed to feel the sentiment linger unnervingly. Okay, maybe he's passing judgment a little too soon (for which he blames the way her gaze seems to keep darting to his face when she thinks he isn't looking, and the way it sparks a tiny jolt of warmth in his chest every time), but he can't help thinking he's missed his one chance to get to know this ridiculous woman whose determination to dislike him has been more entertaining than anyone he can remember ever meeting. It feels like they reach the hotel in no time at all, and then she's telling him she'll wait in the lobby, traces of humor still dancing in her eyes – the message is clear: _you're funny if you think I'm going to come up to your room and encourage you to ask me again, what with being alone in a hotel room with you might suggest_ – and then he's taking the elevator up to his floor with a disproportionately heavy heart.

This is it. Once he gives her the suitcase, he'll never see her again, and it's that thought that has him stopping short as he opens the door to his room, because _hell_ if he's one to give up just like that. There has to be a way he can see her again, and not in a super stalker kind of way. And, as his gaze drifts to her bag still sitting in the corner, he realizes there is.

* * *

Three chargers.

How the hell did she end up with three phone chargers? Less than twelve hours ago she didn't even have one.

"Ruby? Did you leave your charger in here?"

"What?" Ruby's voice is muffled with the bobby pins in her mouth as she leans out of Emma's bathroom, her hands tangled in her long dark hair. Why Ruby insisted on getting ready for her date with Victor in Emma's room is beyond her; it's not like they're getting married, although Emma suspects _something's_ probably coming up soon. "No, that's not mine. I don't even have an iPhone, you dope."

Emma sits back against the bed, her suitcase and its contents sprawled out around her. She didn't really get a pervert vibe from Killian Jones, but she'd have ended up dead in a ditch a long time ago in her line of work if she wasn't as careful as she is. Nothing seems to be missing – not even Ruby's present, which was gifted with minimal pomp and circumstance and was very well received, particularly by Victor. The only thing that's off is the extra phone charger she'd found at the top of the pile.

_That sneaky bastard._ Her heart fluttering traitorously, Emma picks up her phone just as Ruby exits the bathroom and plops down onto the bed, her hair up in complicated knots, looking over Emma's shoulder.

"Shit, did he take something?" Ruby asks, sounding genuinely concerned when she sees the number Emma calls from her recently dialed list.

"No. He left something."

"Hello?" The asshole has the nerve to sound like he's trying not to smile, but his tone is as pleasant and nonchalant as ever.

"I have your phone charger."

"I'm sorry, who is this?"

"You know full well who this is, considering you were expecting me to call."

"Ah, Swan," he says finally, the smirk only too evident in his voice, and she resists the urge to dedicate herself to punching it off his face the next time she sees him (_or getting it off his face in other more enjoyable ways,_ a tiny voice in the back of her mind whispers as it replays the parting look he gave her in the hotel lobby in astounding detail, but that really isn't important at the moment). "What can I do for you?"

"Your phone charger," she repeats slowly. "I have it. Do you want it back?"

"You have my charger? I can't imagine how that could have happened; I apologize, love."

"Is this part of some attempt to ask me out again?" Beside her, Ruby sits up so quickly the bedsprings creak and Ruby's phone goes flying.

The faint sound of his chuckling drifts through the line. "It was rather brilliant, in my opinion. Did it work?"

He's unbelievable. She shakes her head again, but this time with disbelief at how stupidly _bold_ he is. The first time she'd declined not because of preexisting plans with Ruby – if he was actually acquainted with Victor, he would have known that Ruby would be otherwise preoccupied tonight – but because there are only too many reasons not to let this attractive, irritatingly charming stranger even remotely close to her heart. The first of which being, what with how vulnerable he makes her feel without even knowing her and how ridiculously easy he makes her smile even though they've only just met, she suspects he'd be able to steal it with very little time and effort, which is an unsettling development in and of itself. Besides, he's just some random person who just happens to own the same suitcase she does; other than that and the fact that they're both in New York for the weekend, they don't have a single thing in common (besides their related lines of work, and the fact that he probably lives near her parents if they were flying out of the same airport, and since when was level of similarity a surefire metric for compatibility anyway?).

Emma bites her lip, leaning against the bed behind her as Ruby practically vibrates onto the floor, and in the end it's the image of the sparks in his bright blue eyes and the small grin accompanying his parting words – _Until the next luggage mix-up then, Swan?_ – that makes her change her mind.

* * *

He isn't sure exactly how many gods he has to thank for this particular moment, but he's prepared to spend a good portion of the rest of his life showing his appreciation to every single one he can think of because Emma Swan is walking into the bar wearing a short black dress with a plunging neckline and a devilish smile that makes his mouth go dry. She gracefully slips into the seat he'd been saving for her, one hand reaching up to twist a stray curl behind her ear, the other beckoning to the bartender to order a glass of red wine, before turning to him, the scent of her perfume reminding him of cinnamon and flowers and the butterflies quivering in his stomach.

"I guess you do know how to dress for night life," she says approvingly, giving him a thorough look that has him unsure if he's just been checked out or examined by a cop. He's lost the suit, opting instead for the spare gray button-up he'd packed, sleeves rolled up his forearms, with black pants and a black tie wound loosely around his collar – he looks like he could be heading home from work, but it also passes as something he could be caught wearing next to someone with as classy a dress as hers.

"You look stunning yourself, love." He lifts his glass of rum to her in a toast before drinking and settling down in his seat, determinedly not sneaking a glance at the soft curve of her breasts just visible over the edge of her dress. "Are you sure Ruby won't be too upset that I'm stealing your company for tonight?"

"She has her own company to deal with, so I'm afraid you're stuck with me."

"What a burden," he deadpans, trying not to let the delight leak into his voice. "Although I didn't take you as the sort who would take getting dumped for the night sitting down."

"Oh, I definitely gave her a piece of my mind for leaving me with such terrible company." She flashes him a small smile, which he's beginning to think isn't as rare as he'd originally imagined, and when the bartender passes her her drink, she surprises him again by letting out a quiet chuckle. It could just be the alcohol talking, but the sound is pretty much the best thing he's ever heard. And he hasn't even had that much to drink anyway.

"I didn't realize you were such a light drinker, Swan. Not even a sip and you're already gone."

"No, it's just," she raises her glass, "I don't remember the last time I've had wine out of an actual wine glass."

"Perhaps you're the one who isn't quite used to going out, in that case." She throws him a dirty look, and he shrugs good-naturedly.

"I lent my set to a friend and he never gave it back." He senses in the split-second pause before she says _friend_ that this person is probably not exactly that, and that he should change the subject before she gets uncomfortable, but then she rests an elbow against the table and turns to face him fully, crossing her legs and forcing him to vehemently tear his gaze away from the pale skin of her thighs when his eyes unwittingly flit in their direction.

"So, something tells me you don't actually catch the bad guys in criminal law."

He has no idea how she knows that (evidently he looks too soft to be involved with the criminal type, a fact he tells her he'd be happy to prove wrong – _I actually prefer it rough, love._ – earning him a faint blush and an eye-roll), but the truth comes out anyway: he's more of a corporate man, which means his stories are far less interesting than the ones she has to tell about some of her clients in the bail bondsperson world.

It doesn't take him long to realize that he's more than a little smitten with this woman he barely knows – so far, all he learns is that she moved from Portland to Boston along with two of her friends, that her parents still live in Maine (rather close to where he currently lives, in fact), that she's unabashedly good at Diablo III and puts cinnamon in her hot chocolate, but really it's the way her eyes crinkle and her mouth curls when he actually gets her to laugh that makes him grasp just how much trouble he's in. It would be a lot easier to hide it, too, if she would quit touching him casually when he least expects it: a hand on his knee when she's telling him about some guy she had to chase in four-inch heels (apparently she had to bury them in her closet afterwards because just the sight of them made her feet hurt, which is an absolute shame in his opinion because he's positive they'd make her legs look amazing), a light shove against his chest when he voices that opinion out loud.

Bloody hell, did he actually say that out loud? He's surprised she hasn't already left the bar – the more he drinks the harder he finds it to bury how attractive he thinks she is. Maybe the feeling is mutual, because she's leaning towards him with her fifth glass of wine between her fingers, and when he tilts his head in a way that would give him perfect access to her dainty little mouth, tasting the aroma of the alcohol in her breath and the sweet perfume on her skin, she doesn't move away. Her cheeks seem like they're permanently flushed by now; when he notices how her eyes keep flitting to his lips, he licks them slowly for her benefit, watching her squirm as her eyes follow his tongue before she drops her gaze, but the damage is done, because now he can't fucking stop imagining that expression on her face in a different scenario, one involving a nice soft bed and her knees draped over his shoulders (or maybe the bed is optional; at this point he'd settle for the wall of the bloody bar bathroom). It's with an incredible amount of effort that he forces that image from his mind. He's not going to kiss her, he tells himself firmly, and he repeats that mantra in his head until she leans back to take another sip.

"Is that a tattoo?" The next thing that comes out of her mouth brings the moment to a screeching halt. He looks down to where she's staring at the corner of red sticking out past his shirt sleeve, and she pulls the cloth up so that she can see it properly, her fingers leaving what feel like scorch marks on his wrist. "Milah. Who's Milah?"

He opens his mouth, then shuts it again. This isn't a conversation he generally wants to have at all, much less with her, at least at the moment, but the way she's looking at him with concern makes the words tumble out of his mouth. "Someone from long ago." Embarrassingly enough, his voice breaks on the last word, but she seems to understand. Her eyes dart between his, her hands still clasped around his arm, and he vaguely wonders what she sees there before she seems to find what she's looking for.

Perched on the edge of her seat, she leans in – he only has a split second to register what she's doing and his breath catches in this throat – and kisses him.

Her lips are soft and warm, the kiss tender before he moves his mouth against hers with a faint groan. It could be a kiss out of pity, for all he knows, but at this point he's too far gone to care. His free hand reaches up to cup her cheek, fingers just barely tangling in her hair, and when he slips his tongue into her mouth, she lets out a faint sigh and he swears she tastes like triumph. It takes only a moment for the kiss to become more heated, for her lips to start moving against his with a delicate intensity that has his head spinning and a white-hot pang of hunger shooting through every nerve in his body as she fists one of her hands in the collar of his shirt. The other is still loosely clasped around his arm, her light touch like a fire on his skin, and he can't help reaching out to brush her knee, sweeping his fingers against the soft flesh of her inner thigh as slowly as he can, even though what every muscle in his body wants is to ravish her completely and thoroughly, right here, right now, in the middle of the crowded bar.

It's when his teeth gently graze her bottom lip that she lets out a gasp that goes straight to his groin, carefully breaking the kiss. He feels her lashes flutter against his skin once before she pulls away to look at him, and it's with no small sense of satisfaction that he notes her breath coming in quickened pants. Her eyes are darker than he's ever seen them, and at this point he doesn't care what color they are, because they're spelling out a message he'd be an idiot to ignore.

_We have to go. Now._

Well, he's nothing if not a gentleman, and he's more than willing to oblige the lady if she insists.

* * *

She wastes no time in slamming the door shut against his back, knocking the breath out of his lungs as she presses herself flush against him, fingers sliding into his hair as she kisses him fiercely.

They've stalled for long enough, not even counting from when she took the seat next to him at the bar, smelling the sharp, clean scent of him and feeling every inch of her skin heat up from how he seemed to be undressing her with his eyes, and had to resist every urge to grab his tie and kiss him until he was delirious with the need to do the same with his hands – plus every moment afterwards she had to pretend that she wasn't insanely attracted and more than a little aroused.

Not that their conversation wasn't engaging enough to distract her, though, because he's delightfully witty and just the right amount of curious and makes her laugh with startling ease (but it's not like that even matters, obviously, because if her spontaneity wasn't proof enough, this is strictly a _one-time thing_). It was more like a slow burn of desire she tried to bury with fading success, and the moment she recognized the broken expression in his eyes when she asked of Milah, filling with guilt and an understanding she thought she'd sealed off long ago, she gave up and threw herself over the edge of caution and restraint and thoughts of consequences.

If she's completely honest with herself, she'd already known she'd be leaving with him tonight anyway.

Determined not to continue making a scene in the bar after kissing him in what she's sure was a massively entertaining PDA, she'd taken his hand and firmly led him outside to wait for a cab (thank god the rain had finally stopped), but then his palm just _had_ to start curling from the curve of her waist downwards, and she just couldn't ignore the shiver it sent down her legs. The moment they were properly seated, her lips were back on his until the driver cleared his throat.

"Your hotel's closer," she'd murmured against his lips, reveling in how he returned her look with a dazed expression.

"What?"

"Nothing." She'd given the driver the address, refusing to indulge another public make-out session after that, but the way his breath ghosted against her skin, his lips raising goosebumps in the crook of her neck as she tried not to look at him for the entirety of the ride, had her rushing them from the cab into the hotel with absolutely no regard for appearances. She's pretty sure everyone in the lobby knows exactly what they're up to right now, but honestly she can't bring herself to care when he's pressing his mouth to her pulse point in heated kisses that make her legs feel as though they've turned into gelatin.

"_Shit_." She sucks in a quick breath when he distractedly drags up the hem of her dress and runs his fingertips along her thigh, her heart pounding a staccato against her ribcage and sending tendrils of heat shooting through her veins to pool between her legs. His mouth returns to hers, hot and demanding, and he slides one hand along the curve of her ass to catch the back of her thigh and hitch it up to his hip; when he steps between her legs, she can feel him thick and hard where she's positively aching with need.

He breaks away to swallow hard, pupils dilated with lust. "Bloody hell, Swan."

"Everything okay?" She can't help teasing him, even though they're far past the point of wearing too many clothes and talking would just slow the process down even more. There's a smudge of her lipstick on his mouth, his lips swollen and red; she wipes it off with her thumb and scrapes her fingertips across his stubble, enjoying the way his breath hitches.

"Couldn't be better," he mutters darkly, his voice rough with need, before he covers her mouth with his with a hunger that has a ripple of desire searing through her body and her hips rocking against the press of his erection.

Before she knows it, her fingers have made quick work of his tie and the buttons on his shirt and he's nearly broken the zipper on her dress in his haste to get it off of her. They stumble their way through the darkness of the room to his bed, because as far as she's concerned a single second she wastes groping for the lights is a second without the feeling of his smooth skin against her fingers. The dress makes its way to the floor during the trip, and it's just as he palms her bare waist with an appreciative groan and a touch that scorches her flesh that they tumble over the bedframe, limbs tangled, mouths eager and desperate.

"What's this?" He's shifting them up the bed, the cool sheets a stark contrast to the warmth of his body over hers, his fingertips dancing over the lace covering the swell of her breast and making her arch against him. "Should I be offended this isn't the lovely lingerie I know you possess?"

"I told you, I gave it to Ruby. You'll just have to settle for boring old underwear."

His blue eyes travel the length of her, leaving a scorching sensation tingling down her body. "Trust me, love, I'm not settling at all."

It all happens very quickly. His shirt and pants find their way to the floor, and she barely has time to run her hands over the dark hair on his chest – god, she knew he was well-built from how he looked in the suit, but it's another thing entirely to feel his lean muscles shifting against her palms – before he's deftly unhooking her bra and lowering his mouth and she has to bite her lip to contain her breathy moan. His slow exhale is a wisp of warmth in the valley between her breasts as his mouth works at her, the pleasure of his touch going straight to the wetness between her legs, and she faintly remembers him saying something about _rough_ as his teeth scrape her nipple and she tugs at the ends of his hair with a little more force than necessary, a strangled gasp leaving her lips.

"_Fuck_, Killian."

Before he can react – probably with a chuckle, knowing him – she hooks a leg around his and flips them over with surprising grace, considering the last time she'd done anything like this is probably further back than she'd care to admit. His hips jolt upwards when she fits herself right over the bulge of his erection, her satisfied hum mingling with his when she leans down to kiss him. She rolls her hips agonizingly slowly, forcing a frustrated groan from the back of his throat, and when she finally leans back, every inch of her skin is smoldering and tight and _wanting_.

"Condom," she whispers. He wastes no time in complying, fumbling around for his wallet in his discarded pants before finally extracting the foil package, and he tears it open with his teeth by the time she slides her underwear off her legs. They make quick work of his boxers – well, she does mostly, because his eyes keep roaming with an expression like he's won the lottery – and then she's straddling his lap again, her hands clasped around his neck and his fingers hovering by her waist. She can practically feel the deep thrum of his racing heart vibrate through her, pausing for the span of two beats to give him time to steel himself (and maybe she needs a moment of silent preparation too, if she's honest), and then she's lowering herself onto him with a shuddering gasp.

"_God_, Emma." His voice is choked with pleasure when he slides into her, slow and tight in the best possible way. Her legs feel like they're quivering with the effort to keep herself upright, and she ducks her head into his shoulder in a halfhearted attempt to keep up at least a vague sense of dignity. It's only when he's fully sheathed inside her, her legs finally collapsing as she rests against him, that she leans back to look at his face, and his agonized expression, ridiculously enough, makes her pounding heart skip a beat. "Emma, love, please."

She doesn't know how she finds the strength in her legs to move; all she knows is that she's trembling so badly she needs to anchor herself with her arms braced against his shoulders as she does, that the groan that leaves his lips is possibly the most erotic thing she's ever heard, that the way his hand slips between them to rub her where she's swollen and sensitive is definitely _not_ doing wonders for her self-control. Everything is slick heat and burning flesh, her breath coming faster, her face growing hotter as she moves back and forth in his lap in a quickening rhythm, and when his hips start thrusting up to slide himself deeper inside of her at a wonderful new angle, she swears she's going to lose her mind if she doesn't come _now_. Her last few movements are tighter and rougher and more desperate than anything she's ever known, and then everything snaps and she falls apart against him, squeezing her eyes shut against the wave of pleasure that swells from the apex of her thighs down to her numb legs and up to her blazing cheeks. She barely has to move twice before he's muffling his own release in a drawn-out sigh against her lips that has goosebumps trickling down her neck and under the grip of his warm hands.

She leans her forehead against his, eyes fluttering closed, chest heaving. His skin is damp with sweat, his shoulders rising and falling with each of his short, sweet pants she can taste on her tongue. For a long time, she can't even muster up the energy to lift a finger, feeling so heavy with bliss she's surprised she hasn't already crumpled into him, and then, suddenly, he's leaning backwards and she's landing on top of him with a sharp huff, and he's _laughing_ of all things.

"Bloody hell," he says, the lights from the window glinting off of his wide grin as he brings his hands up to rub the palms against his eyes. She props herself up on her elbows, chin in her hands, and despite the lazy, throbbing haze her release brings, she manages a smile as well, because yeah, she can't deny that she's _never_ been satisfied quite like this. "Bloody _hell_."

"Who's the one who doesn't get out enough now?" she teases him languidly, resisting the urge to stick out her tongue. He laughs again before kissing her breathlessly and rolling her over so that she's on her side facing him, one leg caught between his.

"Don't ruin this for me, love."

They lay tangled together until her breathing evens out, or whatever the equivalent of that is when he's watching her with a soft expression on his face that has her heart continuing to race, his fingers tracing idle patterns on her waist, but even then she doesn't feel the slightest inclination to move. Maybe that should make her feel a little concerned, but it's hard to imagine that anything could be wrong with how she's still tingling with warmth from head to toe, wrapped in a level of comfort she can't remember having after sex for the longest time, ever since… well, the last relationship she'd had before dedicating herself to solely one-night stands. Neal is, of course, the last person she wants to think about at the moment, and she's not sure if she's suddenly tensed in response to the thought of him because Killian's fingertips suddenly still against her skin.

"Wait," he murmurs, his palm curving around her hip. She's confused until he catches her eye with an expression that just hints at alarm, and she holds her breath as she watches his face flicker from embarrassment to resignation over the span of a few seconds, unsure if she's even right to hope – unsure why she's even hoping, she shouldn't be hoping, _why is she hoping_ – before his mouth curves into a nervous grin. "You… don't have you leave, if you don't want to."

The flutter of reassuring warmth that fills her body to the brim is a vaguely new feeling, but it's somehow not entirely unexpected. She swallows, trying too hard not to smile. "Your resolve is inspiring, Mr. Jones."

His eyebrow rises and the apprehension fades from his eyes only to be replaced with mischief, and she immediately regrets her taunting. The warmth of his arm snakes under her waist, and he pulls her closer with what she knows is a mockingly ravenous look, but that doesn't stop her heart from skipping into her chest.

"Stay? Please."

"You have such a way with words." She leans forward and kisses him lightly, feeling the curve of his grin against her lips, and he pulls the sheets out from under them while she tries not to laugh at how relieved his expression is (honestly, it melts her heart, but he doesn't need to know that). The way her body fits into the curve of his is something that shouldn't be as natural as it feels, but she decides not to worry about that now, because he's draping an arm over her waist and making her feel safer than she's felt in a long, long time.

And, a few minutes later, when his mouth lingers against the bare skin of her shoulder and she turns over only to have him roll her onto her back with a stomach-flipping wicked smirk, she supposes that's another benefit to staying the night she hadn't considered before.

* * *

He immediately knows he's slept too long because the exhaustion is burrowing straight into his bones and every muscle in his body is aching and the sun is stupidly _bright_ against his eyelids from the moment he wakes. After a few seconds, though, he realizes that he's been awoken not by the late hour but by the muffled blaring of a phone, and that the cause of all of those symptoms is decidedly (wonderfully) not what he'd been expecting in his half-conscious state.

The bed under him creaks as its other occupant slips out from under the covers with a sigh, padding quietly to what he assumes is the source of the racket, before the noise abruptly vanishes. He cracks open one eye, more than a little disappointed by the lack of warmth without the extra body next to his, only to stop short of whining because Emma Swan is naked and standing with her back to the bed and her phone to her ear, facing the doorside table and giving him a fantastic view of her bare backside.

"Hello?" Her voice is muted, hoarse, reminding him in a flare of warmth of how she'd roughly whispered his name the night before. "Mm, sure. Where?" Another pause. "Oh, um. Could we make that thirty?" This time, the pause is punctuated by a short burst of indistinct noise from Emma's phone, and when she speaks again she sounds almost embarrassed. "No, I'm not. No, no, Ruby, it's fine. I'll meet you there in half an hour. Yeah, okay, bye."

He gives himself a few more seconds of silent admiration before clearing his throat, and when she turns around, the startled look on her face accompanied by the darkest blush he's ever seen turns out to be much better. She has her phone in one hand, her handbag in the other; it actually takes him a moment to realize that her front is just as naked as her back before he gives her a quick once-over in appreciation.

"Sorry, phone call." She sounds mildly guilty but she's also arching a single eyebrow in warning, and he's not surprised to see that she's ready to call him out even though she's literally just gotten out of bed.

"No need for an apology, love; I'd be quite the happy man if I could wake up to this every day." His voice his heavy and thick with sleep, and while less than twenty-four hours ago he'd have been mortified for her to hear him like this, he comforts himself with the memory of the noises he'd elicited from her last night and figures they're probably even now. He's thrilled to see her respond to his good-humored nod of approval with a grin creeping onto her face. This _is_ very different from yesterday's dynamic, before they'd gotten to the bar at least, and he loves it almost too much. "Everything okay?"

"Yeah, Ruby just wants to get breakfast."

"Ah. What time is it?"

"Um, nine-thirty."

"Oh. _Shit_." He sits up, feeling the bedsheets pool around his waist, and what had previously seemed like a fortunate absence of a hangover suddenly manifests in a dull throbbing deep in his skull. He supposes it could be worse, but it still makes him wince with pain and bury his head in his hands. "My flight is at eleven."

He hears the bathroom door open and the faucet run, and then she's sitting down beside him with a groan of the bedsprings, forcing a cup of water into his hands. The way she seems so flippant about it, like it's completely natural for her to still be here caring for him when she could have easily walked out the door last night, makes his heart stutter in the best way. "You're leaving today?"

"Why?" He manages a crooked smirk. "Is the allure of another night with me enough to make you consider ditching Ruby again?"

She rolls her eyes, pushing the cup to his lips, and he sips it gratefully. Why is it that, even after a night of alcohol and mindblowing sex, she still seems as unruffled as ever? After a moment, though, she speaks and nearly forces him to spit out the water in his mouth: "I'm not saying that, but," she looks up at him through her lashes, leaning in to trace his collarbone with her fingertips, "I'm sharing a room with her tonight, and I've always wanted to see how far I could take it without waking anyone up."

He forces himself to swallow, but his mouth is suddenly dry again, because he's literally an arm's reach away (or wherever his pants have gotten to at this point) from cancelling his flight at the thought of Emma writhing with silent pleasure from his mouth between her thighs, biting her full, wet lips in a desperate attempt to stay perfectly quiet. "Really?"

She makes him sweat for a few seconds before her mouth curls into a smirk, and he immediately knows he's messed up by showing his hand. "Drink your water; you have a flight to catch."

He watches her rise from the bed, returning her grin around the rim of the glass as she starts ducking around the room to gather her belongings. (He's not vaguely disappointed, definitely not, but the fact that she didn't actually say no does make him want to pull her into bed with him to see just how loud he can make her – that is, until he forces himself to look at the bedside clock with more effort than he's ever had to put into anything in his entire life.)

Trying not to be distracted by how every inch of skin on her bare body is practically glowing in the sunlight (especially when she bends over to slip into her panties, bloody _hell_), he joins her in what turns out to be a rather creative search for their clothes: her bra somehow ends up behind the armchair by the windows, one of his shoes is under the bed in the worst possible position, and she walks around in only her undergarments for at least five minutes before they find her dress crumpled in the comforter. Not that he's complaining in the slightest, of course, although he could have sworn he'd undressed her closer to the door.

"Are you flying out of La Guardia?" Her voice is quiet, and he looks up from tying his shoes to see her slipping her heels on one at a time.

"I am. Why?"

She looks as though she's about to say something, then thinks better of it, her lips pressed into a thin line. "Just curious."

"I'd love a replay of last night's taxi ride if you're offering to give me a proper sendoff, love," and the way she jumps when he stands is proof enough that he hit the nail on the head, "but I'm afraid a truly proper sendoff would require quite a bit more time than we currently have."

Her eyes flit between his again, reminding him of how she'd seemed to be searching for something after he'd spoken of Milah at the bar, but this time the air between them seems to be vibrating with a tension that makes his throat tight. For a brief second, he wonders if she'll agree anyway, if she'll actually cancel with Ruby this time in favor of spending the morning with a man she's only just met.

"You're going to miss your flight," she says at last. Selfishly, he's more disappointed than he has a right to feel.

"Right."

He slowly follows her to the door, and as if in silent agreement, she turns and waits for him to approach her, to corner her against the wall with his hands on her hips and hers clasped around his neck. The way she fits and feels in his arms – it feels _right_, it feels like they've been doing this forever instead of for less than a day; the way she cocks her head to the side appraisingly (god, she's seen him naked and he's never felt more exposed in his life) is somehow familiar in so many ways. Slowly, she slides her fingers down each side of his jaw and pulls him down for a delicate kiss, as if they haven't just spent a good portion of the night wrapped in easily the most intense passion he's ever experienced, and it's a flood of warmth to his navel and just as good as he remembers it.

It's clear that she means for this to be a chaste kiss goodbye, with the clock ticking down to when they both need to leave, but he can't help the fire that starts to run through him at the feeling of her lips, at the smell of her, and it fills his veins with resolution. Without giving her a warning, he pushes himself up against her, feeling every soft curve of her body pressed tightly to him, gripping the smooth fabric of her dress in his hands (a poor substitute for her soft skin, but he's not sure if he can resist the temptation to fuck her against the wall if he manages to get even close to her underwear), and in response her head tilts back to the wall with a dull thud, deepening the kiss with her dainty fingers tangled in his hair.

As it turns out, this sendoff is a replay of last night after all, because it only takes a few seconds for her mouth to turn hungry and desperate, for her tongue to thread into his mouth like the rough grind of his hips into hers, and when he sucks on her bottom lip, she hums a feverish, hot hum that goes straight to his groin. Every time he comes up for air, she drags him back down again, and he really just doesn't want to stop kissing her even if it does mean he'll miss his flight due to a bout of rough, fully-clothed sex against an uncomfortable flat surface, and then it's with a sudden thrill that he realizes she might just be thinking something along the same lines, because she's slipping her hands into the front of his shirt, palming his bare chest with an appreciative sigh, and he's never been more glad to have accidentally left half of his buttons undone –

The loud, sharp sound of a quick buzz makes them both jump, and he pulls away from her with alarm. For a moment, he just reflects her bewildered expression, too dazed to move, and then the sound fiercely vibrates again from somewhere beside them.

She blinks the spell away, and then she's reaching for her phone on the doorside table with a frown turning the corners of her mouth, but he just follows the movement with his eyes, not feeling the slightest inclination to step away from where he's got her wedged between his body and the wall. It doesn't seem like she minds very much though, because she checks her phone against his chest, her other hand still fisted in his collar, her breath damp on his neck and the heavy beat of her heart crashing against his.

He's just able to make out the two texts glowing on her upside-down lock screen, both from a one Ruby Lucas: _Got a table, can't wait to hear all the details! _and _And you'd better not fucking hold out on me, Swan._ A chuckle escapes his lips before he even has a chance to process how he feels about this.

"Ruby knows you spent the night with me?"

Her cheeks are tinged with pink as she clicks her phone screen off but continues avoiding his gaze (and doing everything but getting some distance from him). "She guessed." But it doesn't seem like she's going to elaborate, making the silence swell between them like an unnerving balloon, because literally all this revelation has done is make them remember that they're both on a deadline. Petulantly, the thought only makes him hold her more firmly in his arms, taking in her chaotic appearance with a dim sense of pride – her beautifully tangled golden hair she doesn't seem to want to fix, her swollen pink mouth, a few red marks on her neck and chest that her dress does absolutely nothing to hide, and oh god, she's going to be doing quite the walk of shame this morning, with a dress that definitely wouldn't blend in with the morning crowd to top things off, and the ball of dread in his stomach clenches tighter with a wave of embarrassment for her sake.

"I really do need to go." Her voice is quiet, forcing him to reluctantly meet her eyes. "And you really will miss your flight."

"Can't have that," he says dully. She gives him a tiny smile that belies the way her eyebrows are knitted together, and then she kisses him one more time, pulling away before he can react.

"Have a good flight." He's suddenly not sure if he will, but he lets her wriggle out from between his body and the wall to grab her purse anyway. She takes a moment to smooth out her dress – it's _really _wrinkled, she's not making much of a difference at all – and it's just as she finally looks up at him that he belatedly realizes that he should be saying something in return. He opens his mouth. Nothing comes out. He licks his lips.

"Until the next luggage mix-up then, love?"

She smiles again, but it's just a tiny twitch of her lips. And then she's out the door, the sound it makes as it snaps shut too loud in the room that suddenly feels a lot emptier, and it takes him all of a minute of blank staring to realize he's never been more of an idiot in his entire life.

* * *

The rest of the weekend passes extraordinarily uneventfully.

People stare on the walk back to her hotel of course, and Ruby wastes no time in giving her absolute shit because _fucking yes Emma what did I tell you about this guy?_, but Emma doesn't even have the heart to care or tell her that she's wrong, because yeah, Ruby was right all along, and that's the worst part about it. Killian Jones – he was _amazing_, in all the ways she'd forgotten a man could be amazing. And now she's stuck knowing that, in the end, it didn't _feel_ like a one-time thing, and it might not have had to be, and yet she'd walked out the door knowing exactly what she was leaving behind.

She has a lot of time to think about it in New York, because it seems as though Ruby's determined to send her twenties off with a bang by nearly drinking herself into oblivion, leaving Emma to play the responsible best friend who stays mostly sober and makes sure Ruby doesn't run off with random strangers she'll regret later (not that she's done that in quite a while, but given the frequency at which it used to happen, Emma's not taking any chances when Ruby's blood alcohol level is this high). It's not like she's in the mood to drink very much anyway.

She keeps replaying the morning after over and over in her head – not just how the scent of him warmed every nerve in her body as she woke from the most sexually gratifying night of her life, or how deliciously sore all of her muscles felt pressed between his body and the wall right before she left; it's mostly how easy it was to sit beside him on the bed, completely bare but tingling with his gaze to the tips of her toes, comforted by his presence and in the warmth of his smile – all the while knowing she'd only miss him more the longer she stayed. It's been less than three days and she _already_ misses him, damn it, already misses his snark and dirty charm and the way he makes her feel when he laughs, and she doesn't really know what to think of any of it except that this kind of thing _never_ happens and that she's spent way too long wondering if she should call him or text him or _something_ when she doesn't even know what the hell he wants from her. If he still wants anything at all. _God_. She doesn't even know what she wants from him except for maybe a couple hundred more nights just like the one they'd shared.

On Monday afternoon after her meeting (during which she makes sure to wear a scarf, to hell with the sweltering weather), she and Ruby head home with nothing but a couple of fading lovebites, Ruby's lingering hangover, and a few shopping bags as souvenirs of the trip. Ruby seems to think her sullen silence has to do with how their celebratory weekend went rather than something that'd happened before it had even started (_Shit, I'm so sorry Emma, I should've toned it down so that you could've had a bit of fun too!_), and Emma forces herself to field apologies for half the flight before she cracks and tells Ruby everything.

It really is a testament to how good a friend Ruby is that she's able to listen the entire way through what turns out to be a pretty lame story without interrupting. At the end, she narrows her eyes with disbelief, and it's exactly the reaction Emma expects.

"Until the next luggage mix-up? _Seriously_?"

"It… was cuter the way he said it," Emma says reluctantly, unsure of where the words are even coming from.

"Girl, you've got it _bad_."

She tries to come up with a witty response, trying not to be bothered by how Ruby's expression is caught between pity and amusement, then realizes she can't because it's a little too close to the truth. "I have no idea what to do," she says instead, rubbing her face blearily. "I just want to forget about it."

"That good, huh?"

"Stupidly good." She feels a small smile creep onto her face from the memory. "And, I mean… he was nice. Really nice."

"If he was actually nice he'd have made sure you were available every night for the rest of your life." Emma rolls her eyes, but Ruby continues with the tone she usually reserves for _serious relationship talk_. "Honestly, though, Emma – he hasn't tried to contact you at all. Normally I'd say fuck that and go for it, but he's out-of-state so I don't know if it'd be worth the effort to even try."

It's the cold truth she needs to hear. At least, that's what she keeps telling herself all the way home, stifling her feeble internal protests that Portland isn't _that_ far from Boston, that he could be keeping his distance because _she_ was the one to walk away, and it doesn't matter that once upon a time she'd have been happy to make the first move on someone like him – she's had enough vulnerability for a lifetime, and it's _especially_ from someone like him that she'd be better off staying far, far away. Needless to say, it's still with more than a little disappointment that she gets off at her cab stop from the airport, waving goodbye to Ruby through the car window (_Don't worry, I'll keep my matchmaking local from now on!_).

Her apartment is on the third floor of the complex. She's only too glad it's not number 322 because she caught a glimpse of the door placard as they were stumbling their way into his hotel room, and she definitely doesn't need to be blushing furiously every time she comes home. Her keys jangle as she takes them out of her purse, and it takes her until she gets halfway down the hall for her to notice the small package in front of her door at the end. She doesn't remember having ordered anything online, but it could just be a misdelivery, or maybe one of Ruby's out-of-town friends sent something over for her birthday and assumed Emma would make sure it got into the right hands.

Literally the last thing she expects when she gets close enough to read the label is for the return address to list one _Killian Jones_.

Her heart stops, and she stares for all of five seconds before letting an incredulous half-laugh escape her mouth.

The package doesn't seem very heavy when she deposits it onto her kitchen table. For longer than she'd care to admit, she just looks at it, debating whether or not it's even worth opening – really, if she's going to cut him out of her life, she doesn't need the reminder that he exists, thanks – but then, to her utter lack of surprise, her curiosity wins out.

Wine glasses. It's a box of six wine glasses, never opened, with a note in his stupid cursive handwriting taped to the top of the box: _Please consider this a ransom for my phone charger, which you have not yet returned. – Killian_

_Fuck_. She stares unthinkingly at the box for way too long, willing herself not to react at all, because half of her wants to bury her head in her hands and laugh until her neighbors call the police, and the other half just wants to bury her head in her hands – first of all, because he's right about the charger, and second of all, because this entire situation is just ridiculous, _he's _just ridiculous, and she's suddenly swept up by a sense of déjà vu.

She can pretend this never happened. She can pretend that she never got his package, forgot about his charger, and he'll disappear from her life because, like the last time with the same charger in her bag, that's not what this is really about. This is about giving her another chance to reconsider, another bold gesture that she has every capacity to ignore if she wants – but she knows she'd be crazy to, since his last plan had gotten her so much more than just a chance to know him and it's clear now that, for both of them, it wasn't even close enough.

Before she even unpacks her suitcase, that stupid thing that started all of this, she picks up her phone and hits the most recent unsaved number in her call history. He answers on the second ring.

"Hello?"

"I think our stuff might have gotten mixed up again," she says, her face breaking out into a wide grin at the sound of his voice after, _geez_, has it really only been a few days? "There's a package on my doorstep and it has your name on it."

"Is that so?" He sounds extremely pleased. "I was considering lingerie instead, since you'd apparently given the sets you'd previously owned to Ruby and I think I'd be able to guess your size fairly accurately, but I didn't want to seem too much like a pervert."

"You should have done it. How else am I supposed to get someone's attention the next time I lose my suitcase?"

"Don't tell me you're planning to purposely do this kind of thing again, love?" She can almost see the way he's probably quirking an eyebrow now, his lips curling into that sinful smirk she realizes with a thrill she'll probably see again before long.

"No," she says with a smile. "The last luggage mix-up I had turned out a little too well for that."


End file.
